Jonathan Byers

Several hours have passed since you returned from the Upside Down. The raid was supposed to be routine, just another sweep — check the perimeter, make sure the shadows weren’t thickening too much. But the Upside Down, as always, had its own plans. It spat you out nearly ten miles from the entry point, exhausted, scraped up by shifting stones, aching all over — but, thank God, alive.

Jonathan is sitting on the floor of your apartment, his back resting against the couch. He’s holding a mug of tea that has long since gone cold, just staring at you. In his eyes there’s a strange mix of relief, exhaustion, and something deeper — something he’s afraid to name. The bruises on his cheekbones have already turned purple-yellow, and there’s a dark mark on his neck from either a tendril or a jagged rock. You don’t look any better: your sweater sleeve is torn, a deep scratch runs along your forearm — wrapped in a strip torn from his T-shirt — and the dark circles under your eyes make you look older.

He’s silent. The apartment is quiet, except for the faint drip of water from the kitchen faucet. You know this silence. It only comes after the Upside Down — heavy, thick, when ordinary words feel too hollow to fill the space between two people who’ve just watched reality melt around them.

And then, cutting through the silence, your phone vibrates. Once. Then again. Someone’s texting. You instinctively reach for it and glance at the screen. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Jonathan tense. His fingers tighten around the cold mug.

It’s a message from Nancy. She’s asking if you’re okay and says Steve was worried too — he heard some strange noise in the woods near his house. You quickly reply: “We’re fine. We’re home.” Just normal concern. Friendly.

But Jonathan doesn’t know what it says. He only sees your profile lit by the glow of the screen and the faint, almost invisible smile that appears on your face when you read it. And in that moment, something inside him flips. It’s not anger. No. It’s worse. It’s a sharp, aching pain in his chest that he immediately recognizes.

Jealousy.

He closes his eyes, trying to breathe it out. This is stupid, he tells himself. You’re just friends. You’ve been through hell together, covered each other’s backs while the air trembled with monsters. And it cost him more than he’s willing to admit. Because now, when he looks at you, he doesn’t see just a friend. He sees… his anchor. The only real thing in this insane world.

He opens his eyes and watches you set the phone aside. Your attention returns to him. You ask if he wants something to eat, or maybe to find a proper first-aid kit. Jonathan looks at your hands, at the way you absentmindedly touch the bandaged scratch on your forearm, and thinks about how badly he wishes that touch were his. That he had the right to care for you like that. For real.

Out of nowhere, a line from an old song drifts into his mind — something that was playing in the record store last week when you stopped by. He hadn’t paid attention then, but now the words sink in, perfectly describing what he feels but can’t say out loud.

He's my man… We’re hand in hand… To hell and back…

You went through hell. Together. And I won’t let anyone take you from me. Even if you don’t yet know that you’re mine.

And I love him like nobody else can…

He realizes he’s been staring at you for too long. Maybe you notice. He looks away, takes a sip of the cold tea, and grimaces at the bitterness.

“Who was it?” he asks, trying to sound casual, but there’s a faint tension in his voice. He looks toward the wall, at your old guitar hanging there. “Nancy?”

He doesn’t even try to hide that he guessed. He knows she texts often. He knows Steve does too. You’re all one big, strange family stitched together by the tragedies of Hawkins. But right now, after what you went through today, he wants that family to narrow down to just two people. Just the two of you.

“She’s asking if everything’s okay,” he mutters, almost answering himself, and finally turns his head to meet your eyes.

His eyes — dark, slightly sunken — no longer hold that empty, post-battle haze. Now they’re burning. Quietly, insistently. He looks at you like he’s trying to see something he’s never noticed before — or maybe like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, dissolve like a mirage in the Upside Down.

“You know, sometimes I think…” he starts, then trails off. His voice cracks. He sets the mug down beside him and runs his fingers through his messy hair. He looks exhausted. And… vulnerable.

I’ve been damned…

He feels cursed. Cursed by this town, by the shadows — and most of all, by these feelings for you that aren’t supposed to exist. Because you’re friends. Because everything could shatter in a second if he says too much.

No, nobody has to understand.

He doesn’t care if anyone understands. No one has to. No one saw what he saw. No one knows how hard you fought beside him, how you shielded him from a blow, risking yourself. Only he knows. And that’s enough.

He lifts his head and looks at you again. You’re sitting across from him, just a couple of meters of dim lamplight between you. And in that space, it feels like something important is being decided.

“Today, when the Upside Down started pulling you into that rift…” he says softly, almost in a whisper. “I wasn’t scared because I’d be alone. I was scared that…” He falters again, searching for words that all feel wrong. “That the world without you would be too empty. Too quiet. And too… meaningless.”

In the silence thick with unspoken words, his heart pounds so loudly it feels like it might break through his ribs. And somewhere in the back of his mind, that same melody echoes again — the one that has become his secret anthem:

He’s my man…